


Finding Voices in Dire States of Mind

by Subtle_Salieri



Category: Marvel 616, New Warriors
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cutting, M/M, Self-Harm, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Salieri/pseuds/Subtle_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'd be easier if they would speak about the scars.</p><p>Caring quietly works, in a pinch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Voices in Dire States of Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my argentinean buddy luu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+argentinean+buddy+luu).



Something was up with Vance, he had been being more serious, more focused recently. Something was also up with Robbie's luggage, as it was apparently eating every $1.29 pack of razor blades that he had bought dutifully -- and surreptitiously -- at every town they stopped in. He was pretty sure his suitcase wasn't the one from a set of fantasy novels he had devoured in middle school, so it stood to reason that the two were connected. 

That was, Vance was trying to fix his life without listening to what he needed. There wasn't exactly a comfortable way to broach that subject to him, however, so instead of trying to explain to Vance that that just wouldn’t stop him, he started keeping the blades in his pockets, to harm in rest stops and late at night in the shower, letting the crimson blood, the afterthoughts of his release, flow down the drain.

 

 

Something was up with Robbie, in fact, Vance knew exactly what was up with Robbie. He was lying again. He had seen packs of blades sitting right in the open. He had lied about cutting himself ever since he came to the Academy, and on the road, in their rooms, Vance would lay down and watch and trace over Robbie's scars with his eyes, trying to memorize their locations to call out any that had intruded onto the map he remembered. There was a wish to take those nasty bloody scabs and thin pink lines from Robbie, put them on himself instead, so Robbie could start over, could be whole.

Sleeping in the same room, even in the same bed on occasion, and they were a million miles away from each other, the person now-closest to him in a youth where he had lost so many people, and Vance couldn’t do anything about it.

 

 

Vance was a rational, thinking person, but he was also a superhero. Superheroes are insane. The times that he despaired of Robbie’s habit, dreading the hypothetical day he walks into a room and Robbie’s gone so far that his life is draining along with the blood, would lead to him developing bizarre fantasies; Hurting yourself isn’t normal human behavior, therefore, he was being mind controlled. By aliens. Or a rogue mutant with telepathetic powers – Vance didn’t exactly keep up with the mutant community but the notoriety of the telepaths was sort of alarming. Yes, that was exactly it. They’d find clues that pointed to the culprit’s sloppiness, track him down, maybe it would be the Mad Thinker and his Mandroid, and then they’d solve this like superheroes did: whaling on them. Once they’d beaten the crap out of the guilty party, Robbie would be cured. He wouldn’t want to hurt himself anymore. He’d be happy.

Vance knew that was total bullshit, but he understood tactical plans and flanking maneuvers and hitting people repeatedly with a giant purple telekinetic construct. And he did understand self-hatred, he understood wanting to die – when he first ran away as a kid, he’d harbored a secret hope of going up against a guy a little too strong in the ring, that would be a more noble way to die than just letting his dad beat him until he stayed down. But that was when things were bad for him. And Robbie had had times that were bad for him. But those were done, all done. He was safe and loved and wanted now. Why didn’t that click with his head? Why couldn’t he be happy?

 

 

Robbie didn’t hate life, not really. But he was a superhero. Superheroes are insane. Adrenaline kept him going everytime he stepped into costume, high as a kite, acting like ‘his old self’. He was big and his uniform showed off his muscles and he had superpowers and he saved people and punched stupid villains and he could practically fly.

Then he took it off and he was nervous, he was 5’6”, he had more holes in his skin than a pincushion, he couldn’t ignore cold tremors from his heart and head and then he’d be sitting on the seat of a toilet in a motel room with a broken lightbulb overhead and a broken razor in hand and he felt power. He felt control over himself, he felt a hot release, he felt the curious powers provided by pain welling up in his fingertips as blood welled on his skin, smeared on his arm as he washed it away before Vance caught on. Though he figured that with the Magical Disappearing Razors, he had anyway. And now that there were no more razors in the bag, it was possible, any day now, that Vance could catch on to him catching on about catching on to the cuts.

 

 

Vance liked to hold Robbie, gently, in his arms.

Robbie liked being held by Vance, kept warm, kept comforted.

 

Niels often crawled in while they were cuddling and talking – they could not broach the harm topic, but there were many others – and would nuzzle Robbie's face and lick him. They talked about sports, politics, interests, nostalgia for the old days, far into the night, together under one of those slightly-scratchy plaid blankets that seemingly all mom and pop motels keep at the foot of the bed. They kissed between topics, sometimes, and if one or both of them was drifting into sleep then they'd share a last kiss for the night.

 

Robbie tried not to have nightmares sleeping Vance's arms. It was a very hard thing to avoid. Bad dreams just sprung to his mind, overwhelming him, making him resist the urge to wake up and run, forever.

 

 

It was 6 AM. Vance woke up with only the cat as a companion. Steam seeped from under the door to the bathroom – ah, Robbie must have decided to shower before they set out. They were still headed west, no particular end destination – essentially taking a vacation, but with heroics every time something amiss was run across.

Robbie was in the bathroom. Vance jumped up from where he lounged, and after quickly yanking on a t-shirt and a pair of slacks, immediately began rifling through Robbie's belongings. He hadn't seen any blades since they crossed the Mississippi River, a telling sign if anything. None in the pocket where he last kept them. Not in his shoes. Not in the little pack of supplies he kept for Niels. He turned down to the floor with clothes strewn across it. Not the shirt, not the baseball cap, not the front pocket of the jeans he had shed the night before – but the back pocket. There was shoved one of the telling, crumpled envelopes that presented a razor blade to the receiver. It was empty.

Robbie was in the bathroom.

Was it locked?

 

 

It was.

 

 

Robbie was in the bathroom, crouched in the tub against the wall, naked. His hair was matted and wet under a stream of uncomfortable, stinging hot water from the showerhead, but he had his gaping, torn-up arms crossed over himself, thin blood-mixed-with-water trickling down his arms and over his face and down his torso and thighs that were pressed hard against his chest to keep them from shaking. The rest of him shook, however, teeth chattering, his arms beginning to get sore in their position. He hugged them around himself, instead, and icy cold sensations hit parts of his skin. He wasn't crying, but focused on a bloody, beginning to blunt blade sitting close to his feet.

Not until Vance came in using a copy of the key, which he had asked the owner for under the guise of having locked it from the inside by mistake. Their eyes met in confusion and fear until Robbie snapped his head down and away.

 

Then Robbie bit back a sob, and Vance's heart ached. He only let himself dwell on it for a second, and he wanted to jump to Robbie, to kiss him, to hold him and love him and keep him from doing this, to fix him, but jumping into a wet bathtub was a stupid idea. He picked up a washcloth and a towel instead, and he shut the door to keep a draft out, and then shut off the water; Robbie blinked in surprise. Then he crouched, very carefully, in the other end of the bathtub, at arm's length, offering him the towel. When Robbie didn't take it, he approached, a little bit closer, and slid it around the scarred shoulders, which shook from the chill. His face was cleaned with the washcloth and the soft towel tightened around him, Vance kneeling in front of him. By this point Vance's pants and shirt were soaked in the bloody water, and he gently reached out to take one of Robbie's forearms in his hand, to clean it; When he hit a tender spot that had been slashed and scratched raw, he got a burst of energy slamming into his ribs for his effort, almost falling backwards. Then he went back to his work until the tough, scarred skin was softened and the only indication of fresh wounds were thin, riverlike lines of red. He repeated this with the other arm.

 

Then Vance just held Robbie. Robbie reached his arms that shrieked in upset around Vance, and he tried not to cry.

They stayed at that motel a while longer, and finally, they talked, instead of assuming. And they held each other.


End file.
